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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701271">John Wayne</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssiniana/pseuds/Abyssiniana'>Abyssiniana</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Masturbation, Past Adashi - Freeform, SHEITH - Freeform, Self-Destruction, Sexual Frustration, Shiro and Sven are half-brothers!, Sveith, Threesome - F/M/M, Trauma, Unrequited Crush, svemelle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:41:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,441</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssiniana/pseuds/Abyssiniana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sven Holgersson has had his heart broken once. First loves aren’t meant to last, but the trauma of loving too hard at once made him incapable of ever daring to do so again. Until he met a boy whose heart was already taken, and he found the steel of his armor breaking all over again.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>__</p><p> </p><p>for Alt Shiro Big Bang from uh. 2018. I'm so sorry.<br/>Art by the sweet, ever so patient, <a href="https://thelionshoarde.tumblr.com/">Hymn,</a> in chapters one and four!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Sven (Voltron), Past Adam/Shiro, Romelle/Sven (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Alternate Shiro Big Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. He's got so much in his heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sven should have known better than to answer the electric buzzing of the bell. For one who hadn’t had any sleep, it was way too early to be receiving visitations.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He didn’t want any visits. There was no one he wanted to see. It was probably the mailman, ignoring the physical existence of a mailbox just outside of his apartment complex. Could it be some package from work? <em> Fuck them too. </em> The bumbling insistence made him get up — he thought he was on the couch but he could hardly tell the difference when he rolled off the carpet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The moment he opened the door, he was met with a man as tall as he was, a face so like his own, despite the predominant Asian traits. He rolled his eyes with uncommitted flair and stepped away, leaving the door partially open as a hung-up invitation for his half-brother to come in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What do you want?” Said Sven, the thick Northern European accent making his vowels roll out in a sing-song cadence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, buddy.” Shiro ignored the unwelcoming vibe and slipped into the apartment, kicking off his running shoes and setting them beside the door out of politeness and habit. Seeing this, Sven figured it wouldn’t be a quick visit and groaned into the fridge while bending towards it to pick out two bottles of beer instead of just one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thanks, but… It’s barely ten in the morning.” Shiro graciously declined with a short smile and a hand gesture when the Heineken was held towards him, a raised eyebrow implying that drinking before that time was simply preposterous. Normally, Sven would agree, but such rules don’t apply to someone who skipped sleep for several nights or craved an early death due to liver failure. He grinned bitterly at how comfortably he fitted into both cases.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Suit yourself.” The Scandinavian man didn’t put the second beer away, leaving it on the counter; if Shiro wouldn’t drink it, he’d eventually gulp it down himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He crossed the short distance between the kitchenette and the living room area, walking around the couch to lean against the border of the open veranda door. The breeze that caressed his features was warm and so very American, bringing with it the smell of late fried breakfast, busy traffic and the saltiness of the sea. He lived in a studio-style apartment, larger than he objectively needed, easily kept with less than ten percent of what he made monthly at the office. It had a view he considered breathtaking on the open-house day but had quickly grown tired of. Santa Monica was only marvelous the first few bleeding sunsets; from then on, the permanent set of attractions and buzzing neon lights at the pier became as boring as the iron structures they were, vertiginous and nauseating every turn. During the day, the unmoving ferris wheel and vacant rollercoaster were simply sad to look at.</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Observing the obtrusive cityscape fade to sand and sea and sky with no real enthusiasm, Sven sighed until his vision focused on a closer plane, his mirrored reflection on the glass of the window. It was pitiful, how shitty he looked. Dark circles marked the area under his eyes, heavy bags making him look older than he was, a little beard poking out of his chin and jaw, hair messy over his forehead. An absent-minded sniff reminded him that he needed a shower. He took the beer bottle to his lips and chugged down, holding his breath for longer than he should, secretly craving for the fake relief of drowning.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So… I half-expected to find a corpse here.” Shiro began lightheartedly, and already Sven was <em> over </em> this conversation.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sorry for the disappointment, Takashi, I’ll make sure to die faster as soon as you leave.” He scoffed around the cigarette he picked from his back pocket, more towards the stupid lighter ignition for not working properly than at his brother. Nevertheless, he made a point to act purposely spiteful towards Shiro. The man’s presence was unnerving for reasons that only Sven knew and were too sensitive to be addressed verbally. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Norwegian man lifted his gaze to find a pair of intimidating storm coloured eyes with a cloudy concern and thundery pressure, face a bit too close for comfort. They had always argued with silent glares and passive-aggressive body language until one of them gave in, but this time he didn’t have the energy to stand his ground and thus looked away almost immediately with a tut of his tongue and a soft shake of his head. “Look, I’m fine. Just needed a break, I’ve been stressed.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Being stressed is one thing, but not picking up calls, isolating yourself, and skipping work without so much as telling your boss is kind of concerning. Not to mention drinking this early in the morning, and since <em> when </em> do you smoke, man?!” The cigarette was plucked out of his lips and immediately crushed in the bottom of the ashtray, Shiro scrunching his nose out of disgust. “You’re lucky Slav likes you and reached out to me, otherwise you’d be unemployed right now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, thank you very much, where would I be without you.” It didn’t take a degree in sarcasm to pick that one up. With a gesture towards the door, he emphasized the sentence, his body demanding space by taking a step back. “Now please, show yourself out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No.” A forceful hand that should have known better after over a decade of co-existing as half-relatives reached for Sven’s upper arm, preventing him from moving further away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shiro’s large hand, a hand that knew the body Sven craved to see, the fingertips that got to grab onto perfect hips, perfect cheeks, perfect <em> everything </em>. How dare Shiro to touch him with the same hands that heedlessly stole the man he loved from right under his grasp?!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The proximity triggered an instant reaction, the beer spilling from the fallen can and staining the expensive carpet at their feet. Sven’s fist twisted around the other’s T-shirt and tugged it down, the threat hanging between them until the tips of their noses brushed. They measured each other with their eyes, grey on grey, a clash of glinting swords in an arena deprived of spectators. Two lonely warriors, fighting for what was rightfully one’s and unjustly coveted by the other. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>How lamentable. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pulling at the shirt had been a mistake. Sven didn’t need to see those marks on his brother’s throat, knowing whose lips caused such delicious, purple bruising. Those temporary cloud-shaped tattoos with their own pattern on tanned skin, made in the darkness of a room, should be marking <em> his </em> neck instead. At that thought, his grip loosened, fist untying from the collar of Shiro’s shirt, arm falling to his side.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Sven saw Keith first. </em> The claim was primitive, utterly ridiculous, and he knew it, he fucking knew it, but still he was greedy and he wanted, he wanted Keith so bad and, much like everything he ever fought tooth and nail for in his life, Shiro effortlessly got it instead of him. Tears burned at the back of his eyes, but he wouldn’t give in to the tendency of submitting to the weakness of a one-sided heartbreak.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His memory tugged at him, taking him to Shiro’s apartment across town, only a couple of months ago.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. but he doesn't know what to do</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“He’s simply... stunning." Sven breathed out, looking up to the immobile ceiling fan above his head and sinking into Shiro’s couch (and his temporary bed) with the premise of rest and the relief of comfort after such a long day. Even if his body urgently craved a nap, his mind was far from allowing it just yet; not when the visual memory of his crush's slight and barely-there corner smile was still so fresh, carved in the stony onyx of his eyes. An honour, Sven considered, a blessing to be granted the chance of merely staring at the barista from the distance of a balcony and a registering machine. "There's this... mystique that surrounds his persona. He looks so sweet and tender, but also like he can roundhouse kick you in the chin at any given second. There's an edge to his jaw and personality alike, you see?”</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>He knew he shouldn't have his feet up on the coffee table </span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span> house rules </span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span> but only lowered them when his brother nudged his legs to pass by the narrow space between Sven and the table to sit next to him, the springs of the couch complaining at their combined weight. "It's like he extended his delicate little hand and picked up the stars from the sky and placed them in his eyes." That earned him a heartfelt snort from Shiro. "When I see him, my heart stops beating, or maybe it just beats too fast for the rest of my body to keep up." </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“Just ask him out already, man!” Shiro urged with more spirit and stamina than anyone should have after midnight on a weekday; yet again, he was shoving a spoonful of milk dipped breakfast cereals into his mouth like his day was just getting started. Shiro enjoyed the feeling of breakfast at random times of the day. "You’ve been pining over this dude for what, three months now, and you don't even know his name yet."</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>"I can't simply ask for his name as if I'm entitled to it."</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>"You MADE yourself a regular at that coffee shop, you buy three lattes a day just to interact with him."</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>He considered for a few seconds. "... Don't say it that way, it makes me sound dumb."</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>To the subtle eyebrow raise from Shiro, Sven grunted and hid his face in one of the pillows, prolonging the sound for longer than his throat should permit.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>"You </span>
  </em>
  <span>are</span>
  <em>
    <span> kind of dumb, you know? You haven't slept properly for days because of all that caffeine. Watch out for your blood pressure, bro."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, yes, because Kellogg’s Froot Loops do wonders to blood pressure, Takashi.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>As a twenty-five-year-old man Sven would think he'd be over this type of idiotic behaviour, but look at him, heart aching for a stranger and finding a reason to keep on beating with the sole hope of not stuttering like an ass again while asking for his coffee. It was so unlike him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His cheeks reddened as Shiro went on with some advice on how to stir up a conversation beyond the usual order, some of which seemed simple enough. But those pointers were immediately shoved aside for involving the toss of more words than the ones he had mentally rehearsed to repeat like a robot out of habit.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>Sven wasn’t a hopeless virgin; quite the opposite, in fact, he held the after-dark reputation of a local Casanova. Sex was something he could have as frequently as he wanted, with occasional pickups at bars or parties, and a couple contacts he kept for the single purpose of hooking up with no compromise. No strings attached, no hearts to break. Love was… a complicated matter for the Norwegian man. One he prefered to not address at all except in its physical, carnal form. It was painless for both parties, satisfying enough that he never craved for more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But this boy...</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The amount of distant adoration he held for that stranger was something he hadn’t felt in a very long time </span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span> a dry gulp as he remembered the first and only time his heart learned the sting of poison of betrayal </span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span> and perhaps that was the reason why it was so hard for him to approach the situation. Was he ready to become romantically involved? Heck, he was being presumptuous. As far as he knew, the guy would turn him down and just label him as a creepy stalker, file a restraining order and that would be it to this love story.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For once, though… If there was a chance for him to be happy in a relationship, Sven would fucking take it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sven.” Shiro’s voice brought a questioning pout to the Scandinavian man, head turning to see a ridiculously cute expression on the similar features of his half-sibling. He knew about Romelle; he knew about the girl to whom Sven had dedicated most of his early teenage proportion of eternity. He knew how she nimbly stole what Sven wanted to give, a false innocence she sold to several men in exchange for Saffiano leather Prada totes and Gucci nightwear. Shiro had cradled him to sleep and fondled his hair, patiently dried his never-ending stream of tears and promised him he’d be okay, that it wasn’t his fault, that she was the one ruining her own life and that it wasn’t his place to save her from the hell she had willingly walked into. More than anyone, Shiro knew how hard it was for Sven to even consider falling in love again, and he knew how important it was for him that, eleven years later, he tried. “I’m proud of you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shiro’s face was ripped off right out of Bambi, with a gentle smile and doe-like eyes leaking genuine repletion. How disgusting. Sven snorted and rolled his eyes before playfully shoving at his brother with his elbow. “Shut up, you nerd.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The short buzz of an alert on Shiro’s smartphone was amplified by the surface of the glass coffee table in front of them. The text was from a cell phone number identified only with an emoticon heart symbol.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“”Less than three”, Takashi? Who’s “less than three”?” Sven teased, playfully peeking at the text Shiro shyly smiled down at, with no legitimate intention to invade his brother’s privacy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Remember that guy I told you about? From the self-service laundry? We spoke a bit yesterday, again, and...” The reticence left the end of the phrase hanging, head wagging from side to side as if that’d tell the story Shiro’s mouth was too busy stretching impossibly for the sweetest love-struck smile to tell, with the tickles of an incoming giggle pressing on his lower belly. Before Sven could pressure for any more details, he shoved a spoonful of overly sugary cereals into his mouth and mumbled an ambiguous “You know.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Date?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“We’re going out for lunch. Tomorrow. You’ll like Keith! He’s picking me up here, so you can meet him.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. All he wants is her</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“... I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s been bothering you.” The intensity of Shiro’s eyes softened as they always did after a fight — </span>
  <em>
    <span>what a motherfucker</span>
  </em>
  <span> — into an expression of pleading, a gentle demand for Sven to give in just a little and let it all out, as he normally would.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not this time, though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just go.” He insisted, a heavy frown uniting his dark eyebrows. There was a tone of despair in his voice, one he hated himself for not holding back. Showing weakness at this point only enforced the idea that he needed someone and if he could say it, he would. He would spit it out of his chest, but he loved his half-brother way too much — and he hated him about the same percentage — to let it happen. The slight crack in his voice dragged onwards to the appeal. “Please, Takashi.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Running his fingers through the stupid white forelock, Shiro pushed it back, making it merge with the black strands only to have them flopping back to his forehead. Sven saw him nibble on his lower lip as if he were processing, considering, contemplating if it would be okay to leave a self-destructive man alone any longer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Promise you’ll call tonight.” He tried to reason, hands resting on his waist, but Sven was so beyond that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see about that.” Non-committal, much like everything in his crappy life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hesitantly, Shiro walked to the entrance hall. He seemed to take his time tying his shoelaces on purpose, often glancing up at Sven with eyes that begged him to reconsider and extend the invitation that was never made in the first place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If only Shiro could see how mercilessly the thorns of jealousy tightened their grip whenever he was around. Whenever he carried the scent of Keith on his clothes, his mark on his skin. Shiro never knew how perilously in love Sven was, even before he knew that Keith already had his mind set on someone who shared his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>More than losing Keith, it was the fact that he had lost him to someone who was </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So close, but never, ever enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sven…” He whispered, the door already open, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and why the fuck are you still here?! </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I don’t know what happened to you, but I miss my brother. And I want him back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sven turned his back with no reply, the latch of the door falling on mute ears as he returned to his place by the window. His stomach rumbled in demand of food, but his mind was louder in its chants of the one thing that made his blood pump through his body, the only thing that kept him just shy of a corpse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Handsome, sexy, insanely beautiful Keith, with the galaxy hidden behind his irises, the lips with unlockable secrets and the stunning body that could either hold him through the night or pin him down and fuck him senseless. The boy who barely smiled but when he did, it aligned the stars in their rightful place, it ignited the sun and made it shine for one more day, it made life worth living and an angel fall from the sky. A young man, so out of this world yet so tauntingly close.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But not for Sven. Never for him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You want your brother back?</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Sven mused in thought, the second cigarette in the past hour finding its way between the man’s lips, his face grimly illuminated by the lighter. From the edge of the balcony, he looked down at the street, the large figure of Takashi jogging to his jeep hard to miss.</span>
  <em>
    <span> You killed him without even knowing.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. lying inside his room</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was no comfort to be found amid black satin sheets that reeked of days old sex and some woman’s pungent perfume. There was no familiarity, despite being in his own room, no sense of belonging in a bed full of filth and a room that still echoed the moans of a stranger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Had he the strength to as much as roll over, he would have materialized his disgust in a pool of regurgitated alcohol and the frozen meal he had eaten hours before. Instead, he simply closed his eyes, attempting at sleep once more. In the realm of unconsciousness, time passed and he wouldn’t be forced to feel it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That's what he had been trying to do the whole day, though. No amount of rest seemed to have the magical power to wipe away the fact that he felt like shit. Sven sighed, sliding his arm from under the pillow and stretching the dormancy away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A shower seemed like a waste of company water on a walking corpse, but under the excuse that a water-wrinkled body would likely decompose faster, he dragged himself to the bathroom. His sweatpants were left somewhere on the carpeted floor as he walked, his T-shirt tossed to a laundry pile that saw no washing machine in weeks. By the time his bare feet met cold tile, Sven was fully naked. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could have bothered to let the water run into a more pleasing temperature, but his body was more than used to the chill of Norway, and for a moment there, he went back home in his mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A cup of snow was balled in his hands, fingertips reddened with frostnip for disregarding the advice of wearing gloves while playing outside. Gloves slowed the process of ammunition crafting, he had told his mother and received a simple shrug and head shake in return. A small pyramid of snowballs was topped with the most recently made one, and Sven peeked over the rock he hid behind. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The landscape was coated in sugary frosting like a giant cupcake, trees unmoving except for the weaker twigs that gave in to the accumulation of weight on top of them. One of them cracked, and like high noon for brave cowboys, the fight began at the sound.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Unsure from where, a snowball hit him on the side of his face. He shook it off, giggling at the water that slipped inside his ear. It tickled. Automatically, he reached for his previously prepared arsenal, bringing out a perfectly round snowball, and aiming it towards Takashi’s given away hideout. As soon as a woollen clad head popped out from behind a snow barchan, it was hit. As if unphased, another ball was thrown at Sven, landing on the rock and dissolving immediately.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sven had the clear advantage, having spent his whole life in Norway entertaining himself with snow games with his dad; he knew all the tricks in the book, like covering his fort in water so that it’d freeze over time and create an extra protective layer. After a few assaults, Takashi seemed to have realized the fort was impenetrable and had retired back to his inferior hideout only to gather as many balls in his arms as he could before taking a more aggressive approach.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sven did the same and they both staggered into attack, tossing their makeshift bullets with trained arms and faulty aim.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Another trick was to keep additional stashes of snowballs across the battlefield, hidden from the adversary. Takashi thought he’d gained the upper hand after driving Sven away from his coated fort, but was in for a little surprise when the Norwegian boy hid behind a tree and returned with replenished ammunition.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Takashi fell not long after that. Having run out of snowballs, he threw his arms in the air, showing surrender. But well, should Sven’s last stash go to waste?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hell no. He tossed those last few against a balled-up Shiro, curled in fetal position to futilely defend himself.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The last trick </span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span> if it could be called that even </span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span> was that a victory was only truly consummated when the winner shoved the last snowball underneath the layers of clothing of the opponent. Once he was within reach, he straddled his brother, holding the final snowball up threateningly, dark intent gleaming in his steel coloured eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No no no! That’s cheating!” Takashi whined in the middle of a laugh, writhing beneath Sven, thrashing in an attempt to escape his inevitable fate. "C'mon, Sven, it's over, you won! Have mercy!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Time must have stopped then. Sven knew how that memory went, how he had lifted his half-brother’s shirt and smeared the final snowball in warm naturally tanned skin, watching it melt immediately upon contact, but instead of the cold of the snow and the shower, he felt his skin burn, the hot water scorching him, the anger he felt towards the man beneath him, hand curling into a fist that cracked the tiles of the shower wall, black porcelain shards falling to his bare feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hated him. He hated Shiro so, so much...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beneath the showerhead, Sven only moved to adjust the water faucet into an acceptable incalescence, letting his hair cover his forehead and stick to the back of his neck. Maybe he could wash away the shame or most of his depression. Hopefully, his feelings as well, because they were driving him crazy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sven had been so glad he and Shiro had met in their early adolescence; he’d been so glad to discover he had a boy the same age to call brother, but looking back he almost wished he had never replied to that mysterious letter from Japan. How does one go from absolutely adoring his half-brother to despising the mere thought of him? It wasn’t even about Takashi, but having someone other than himself to blame for his misplaced feelings was the easiest way to deal with rejection, now wasn’t it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He washed with a neutral soap, combing his hair back with his fingers and letting the water splash on his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shiro probably didn’t take showers alone anymore; the guy was a fucking maniac, he showered once or twice a day, after hitting the gym or after jogging or training, or just because it was hot outside, but more likely than not, he had Keith joining him every time. Why wouldn’t he? If Keith were his instead, then, by God, he would do everything with that boy as well. From showering to falling asleep next to him to waking up the next day and making breakfast together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Had Shiro and Keith ever had sex in the shower?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snorted bitterly; knowing his half-brother as shamelessly well as he did, Sven was certain they had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes and saw himself in Shiro’s place. Keith's body was lean, the tenacious curve of his waist the cause of many crashes on the road of Sven’s mind. He imagined his hand running down Keith's side, following the path of the water, gripping on his hip bone and yanking the smaller male closer, so close, their breaths dancing together, each other's taste hovering their lips without any actual contact. Not for long, however. There was no telling which of them gave in to the proximity first but sooner than not, their tongues would entwine, arms curling around one another, Keith's nails clawing at Sven's back. In the immediacy of the fantasy, some blood was drawn, but as the pain was an abstract concept, Sven paid no mind to it, instead focusing on the sting of the figmental scratches, the fake lips against his, a dreamy entrance forged by the tightness of his fist to simulate the tangibility of fucking into Keith. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He would love it rough, Sven was so sure, he looked like the type of boy who would like to be trapped between the wall or the mattress and a larger body. Judging from the way Shiro came out of the bedroom with sweat beading at his forehead, soaking that stupid dyed forelock, acting like nothing happened in that division… he probably fucked him so good, pulling on that mullet as he sank home, his cock wrecking Keith and making him moan and beg and writhe and groan, all for Shiro</span>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, Shiro, get out get out get OUT.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Out of frustration, Sven let go of his hardened member, feeling it soften gradually as he stared down at it. Pitiful tears rolled down the Norwegian man’s cheeks, falling over the valley of his jaw and snaking down his neck, along with the stream of water that washed them away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no crying for a man so far gone.</span>
</p>
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